


what do you remember?

by huntressed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Personification, Personification of Death, life personification, with historical references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 22:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15350565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huntressed/pseuds/huntressed
Summary: humans are fools, but they are also lonely and the cause of the neverending sympathy that has settled deep within her chest a millennia ago.





	what do you remember?

the world is ceaseless, and so is she. there are a multitude of emotions ever present in the ever-changing world and she’s experienced it all. selfishness. hero complex. stupidity and bravery morphed into one. entitlement. prejudice. there’s no limit to the phenomena she has experienced as she walks through the lengths of the earth with a stoic look on her face.

         people are malleable. they conform, but they never defy. there is always one set of principles that they go by to the point where they’re all just collective in their mindsets. they do not impress her anymore. she has been walking the earth long enough to see that humans are not beautiful. they are fools and they are all shallow. they are rotten — waking up each day without noticing that they are decaying.

         she pities them, yet she is envious at the same time. their short time gives them more purpose.

         it is one in the morning and she is walking through the streets of berlin with a far away look on her face. the night is cold, but she has become stoic and indifferent it. physical feelings do not matter to her, not anymore.

         the wind whispers in her ears and she feels the earth rumble just a little under the soles of her shoes. there is a ghost of a smile present on her rose painted lips and she looks up at the sky just enough to see one distant star wink in her direction.

         it should not be solemn — not for her, not when she bleeds loneliness and despair, but she relishes it anyway.

         a face of a boy surfaces in the night, and there is something she couldn’t pinpoint about him. there is familiarity with the way he walks, and the way he hastily looks back into the night that she finds herself curious about the boy.

         he carries innocence in his face, a stark contrast to the years and years of darkness she contains. she thinks of how much it would take before he breaks, before he concedes to all the darkness life has to offer, before all the anguish comes.

         she has seen a lot of people succumb to failure. their bones cracking and breaking under pressure that she feels sympathy as she escorts them to where they are headed.

         humans are foolish, but she could never find herself entertained at the thought of their suffering. what breaks them or what makes them.

         she will always be impartial to that.

         humans are fools, but they are also lonely and the cause of the neverending sympathy that has settled deep within her chest a millennia ago.

         the boy who looks familiar crosses the road with his hands in the pocket of his coat. she watches with a steel gaze, paying no attention to the visible air that escapes the part of her mouth as she exhales. he looks lost, as if he is wondering where all roads go and which one must he take.

         she resists the urge to approach. a quick reminder is recited inside her head; she does not approach anyone, _they come to her._ so she holds herself back and clicks her heel on the pavement, filling the air with the _click_ of her stiletto against the ground.

         the boy is quite a sight. stumbling on his feet as he tries to find his way in the dimly-lit streets of berlin. it takes her a few minutes before she decides to approach him. her coat stays still as she walks — and to onlookers it looks rather ghostly; the way she walks — and her heels click on the ground. her demeanour looks intimidating, and she knows it.

         looking comfortable is never her. she had always embodied mystery, and danger. to the very few people she has met normally, she is an interesting yet terrifying girl. it does not matter that she tells them how she’s quite young. the way she carries herself and the way she speaks with such certainty gives her away.

         besides, no one with precious youth has the guts to fill their life with sorrow and despair. that’s the thing with these people, they are all scrambling for the faintest sliver of happiness and fulfillment that they forget the essence of those, and how they will never exist without pain.

         her hands are cold but she does not feel it at all when she falls into stride with the boy who has garnered her interest. the physiology of the human person would have made it impossible to withstand this cold, but she is not bound by any physical restraints nor is she vulnerable to the human pain.

         “who are you?” short and precise. not quite what she expects from him. but the familiarity is ghostly and she finds herself thinking through centuries, trying to figure out where she saw him.

         “no one you know.” she keeps it vague, not willing to give herself away so immediately. her name would have to come later, when she finds him in her memories that dates back so many years ago that she forgets where it all even began.

         he squints as he looks at her, stopping in his tracks as he looks as her. she has seen that look before, it is found on countless faces she has seen and she only responds to him with a smile. it takes her aback when his features soften, and a smile replaces his confusion.

         it is a look of familiarity.

         she finds herself confused for the first time in quite a long time.

         “you may be right,” he tells her, placing his hands deep within the pockets of his coat. “but you know me,” he states it so confidently that it rivals her own.

         “you are not as famous as you would like to think.” she breathes in the crisp air of berlin before tuning out the world. her steel blue gaze are fixated on him and she tries to claw out _how,_ but she finds nothing but white.

         behind him is only white. white like the seafoam in which aphrodite emerged from. white like the clouds from up above. white like the halo of the angels she is yet to see. white like pure innocence.

         she does not understand why she could not see anything other than white. there should be images, vivid flashes of what will happen just before he takes his very last breaths. instead, there is nothing.

         “it is rude to stare, mademoiselle.” there is a slight glint in his eyes that she could not describe. she finds it both charming and annoying.

         “you look like someone i have seen before. that is all.” it is true, but also a lie. she does not know who he looks like. all she knows is that everything he does is undeniably familiar.

         their shoulders touch and she finds herself scoffing in her head. humans, they rely too much on touching that they crave it even from strangers they see on streets. it is foolish, but also brave.

         “he must be a very fine man, then,” he suggests as the night glows brighter and the time falls deeper.

         “do not get too cocky.” she responds, and she takes notice of how he checks his wristwatch. time is nonexistent to her. not when the days just melt into weeks, and weeks into months, and months into years so quickly.

         she is ceaseless, and so is time. hence the reason why time is almost nonexistent to her.

         his laugh sounds like a summer morning in france, a pretty sound. she could easily conflate his laugh with the way birds would chirp just outside her windowsill back in malta, or the way the waves softly crash against the sand in the philippines. it is a sound she does not hate.

         “i was only joking. you need to loosen up just a little.” there’s a crinkle in his eyes that she has seen before, and at this point, she finds herself desperate to find out who he is or where he is from.

         she does not express that, though, choosing to keep quiet about her internal conflicts.

         “what’s your name?” he asks with a slight tug at the edge of his lips that she swears could mirror her own look of mystery.

         “i will tell mine if you tell yours.” she states. people are too trusting. he will tell her his name and she will tell him a name. it is not something she has never done before, but it is something she has done on very few occasions.

         it will work, though. it always does.

         “edward.” he smiles.

         like the routine of this world, it works.

         “victoire.” victory in french. it is the first name she has used for herself, and the meaning is not lost unlike most of the names in history.

        he looks at her, then shifts his gaze to the night sky. “that is a pretty name.”

        “a name with more meaning than beauty.” she corrects him. she has lived long enough to know that beauty is meaningless in the face of an endless war. beauty is failing, she has witnessed that more than once.

         the way he moves closer to her does not go unnoticed. she takes note of how warm he is, and how he seems to radiate warmth strong enough to battle the coldness that is both within her, and within this world. there is a slight amusement on her face when he looks at her with a confused expression.

         he’s expecting, and she’s not yielding to his expectations.

         “what do you remember?” he asks her out of nowhere.

         she doesn’t answer, but it is all very clear and vivid inside her head. war, famine, anguish, and unending pain. to some, it may be too much to remember. it is too little for her, though. the memories are repetitive, stuck in a vicious cycle of cruelty and undeserved forgiveness that she is more than desperate to see something that does not belong in that cycle.

         “nothing,” she answers although she remembers everything.

 

everything is brighter in madrid. it is filled with culture and pretentious smiles and anonymity that she finds it quite fascinating. madrid is not quite ever-changing, it still holds on to generations of torrid memories and intruding, but the people do not know. they never look back. she finds herself laughing bitterly under the harsh light of the sun. they never look back, it is one of the reasons why they are always stuck in this never-ending cycle of doom.

         all she has to do is sit back and watch these people claw out one another, preferably with a cup of tea in her hand and a sunglasses over her steel blue eyes. watching events that have been more or less repeated in history can get tiring and it can burn. her eyes have burned watching history unfold before her eyes. her eyes have burned as she watches flames engulf these people along with their anger and rage and their insatiable desire to win a war that will never end.

         it is almost like a dark piano piece that starts off slow; a nocturne that is not quite romantic, but not quite a lullaby either. then it progresses into a much faster pace that could make one’s heart pound in both excitement, anxiety, and fear. it goes on and on and on until the final beat that would shatter every single belief instilled in them. the final beat to shatter their hearts and their bones.

         she watches the world like that; as if she is the pianist, playing until their demise. when they finally break, she watches as they go to the next destination.

         it is her routine. watch the world fall apart, and then aid the ones who break.

         she has become apathetic and merciless as she watches. after years and years of watching the same thing, she knows that mercy is not hers to give nor sympathy.

         madrid becomes a little too boring for her, so she finds herself in ronda. standing on the famous puente nuevo, looking at the el tajo gorge where she has seen tragedies countless of times. she remembers the civil war, and the anger and hatred that used to breed in this very bridge. they all fall down. regardless of which side they fought, they all fall down in the end.

         the ones who fall in the gorge are luckier than the ones who lived to see the light past the civil war. they live with ghosts. ghosts that are far scarier than their demise in the hands of war.

         she has met war before. war is aggressive and beautiful at the same time. war is chaotic and forgiving but never solemn. war is wild; laughing in the faces of falling comrades and smiling at the victory of the side she blesses. war is too much for her. so she leaves and wanders by her own like she always has.

         “the gorge is beautiful.” someone speaks from beside her. she could feel their shoulder touching hers, and it is warm and dangerous.

         “it has taken so many,” she tells the stranger that’s too familiar for her to look at.

         “it may have, but it has witnessed beauty as well.” she could feel him smiling.

         five. four. three. two. one.

         she looks at him. she is not surprised when she sees the same charming boy from berlin with the warm smile and broad shoulders.

         “i do not find beauty in tragedy.” tragedy is lonely and painful. there is nothing romantic nor beautiful about someone meeting their absolute destruction in a world they had once painted as benign.

         “tragedies are sad, but before a tragedy is always love.” a look of nostalgia graces his features, and she swears she has seen him before. instead of looking for him in her memories, she _looks at him_. he is wearing a white button down with the a few buttons undone, and his sleeves are tucked up.

         there is something cold in the way he carries himself; as if he contains everything beautiful and painful at the same time. she would never let herself admit it, but there is grace in the way he moves and the way he speaks. the world is filled with decay, but here he is looking ever so graceful and amazing that she momentarily forgets why she has been pessimistic throughout all the years.

         “love is a tragedy itself.” it is a statement filled with both longing and spite.

         “shakespeare would like to have a word with you.” his laugh is airy and full, a stark contrast to hers that contains nothing but bitterness and resentment towards the world.

         “i already had a word with him. he hates me, just like anyone would.” everything is vague, yet clear at the same time. there is no inkling of lie in her words. every human who has ever met her hated her and despised her with all they have; they would give everything not to see her.

         there is understanding at the end of her sentence. if she is like them, she would hate herself as well.

         she does not dwell on it, though, for it is useless.

         “i do not see why anyone would hate you.” he is already facing her when he says it.

         “it is not for you to see why.” she keeps her gaze on the gorge, ignoring the slight hum in her chest. it is useless to notice him, or the steady beat that increases in her chest. they all fall.

         “i would never hate someone so beautiful.”

         her hand curls into a fist, and she uncurls them again as she faces the stranger who presented her with an interesting choice of words. she has heard people describe her almost every single day. she is dangerous, terrifying, absurd, morbid, and cruel. she is all of that, but she is never beautiful.

         “do enlighten me, edward,” it is the first time she says his name ever since she met him in berlin, “how am i beautiful?”

         touch is something is she immune to. countless of people have brushed past her or touched her without them knowing, and touch is something that does not matter at all to her anymore. however, she finds that it is different when it is coming from him. he tucks a piece of her blonde hair behind her ear, and he moves closer.

         “you are elegant, and i see the world when i see you.” the way he speaks makes everything so convincing and believable that she has to remind herself that he will fall down too. just like everybody else.

         she has learned long ago to never want something that will never be hers, and she has to remind herself this as he moves closer to her.

         “what do you remember?” he whispers as she closes her eyes.

         “war.”

 

he takes her to france. together, they walk along the seine with nothing but nostalgia written across their faces. her fingers are laced with his and their bodies are close enough that they resemble a couple having a solemn and quiet moment in the city of love.

         she should complain. she should tell him that she is not capable of that kind of attachment, but she finds herself conceding to him. she is dangerous, mysterious, terrifying, and cruel; but she finds herself at peace and almost satisfied with herself. it is the first time she has been _this_ peaceful in a millennia, and she finds herself holding edward’s hand tighter.

         france is no stranger to her. she has seen this place numerous times that she knows every single road by heart, and has left no stone unturned. france the closest thing to home that she will ever have, and it is the closest place where she would feel beauty and love that is untainted with pain.

         there had been a time where france is bloody. where war revelled and smiled as they walk side by side in anonymity, watching the events of history unfold before their eyes. she carries a grim look on her face, fitting for someone like her. while war looks on with fire in her eyes and her smile.

         it has been years since she had seen war, but war is ever-present in everything that is going on in this world that she does not even need to look to know that war is everywhere. war is lurking in every corners of the world with her blood red lips and her fiery gaze.

         her return to france is filled with nothing but indifference as she walks around the louvre while looking at the pieces of art that people have made in their short period of time in this world. it is one of the only things that could make her smile. these people who made art out of their horrible experiences are the people she does not hate.

         after all of that, she has learned to be indifferent.

         “paris is amazing,” he says with wonder and knowledge hidden beneath his words. it is something she catches on without trying too hard. he is readable and obvious. while she is mysterious and completely stoic.

         “it is nice.” she nods, and she notices him throw her a sideways glance. it is the first time she has said something remotely positive, she is aware of that, yes. it should not be a big deal, though, but he is him. everything is a big deal to him.

         the smile he gives her is bright and comforting, and so very _him_ that she forgets about all the laws she has set down for herself about attachment to people who fall down. he smiles at her like she is everything, and he is nothing. he smiles at her like there is something big waiting for them while they traipse along the edges of the world. he smiles at her like she is light.

         it takes her a few seconds to calm the furious beating in her chest. it is angry, confused, and complaining. she has deprived herself of attachments for so long that even her own heart is fiercely calling her out for finding attachment in a time where she has already vowed to never open herself to other people.

         they all fall down, and she does not. it is the only reason why she should never be attached. one would argue that one reason is not enough, but sometimes all a person ever needs is  single reason.

          _they all fall down, and she does not._ she keeps this in mind as edward pulls her to the eiffel tower. his face is illuminated by the elegant light of the famous monument of love. the smile on his face almost divulges all feelings of love known to mankind, so she looks away. she pretends that she is looking at the top of the tower in order to save herself from possible attachment to a man who will cease.

         she is ceaseless, and so is the world. he is not.

         “dance with me.” he takes both her hands and places them on his shoulders, prompting her to move closer.

         they are close enough that space can be deemed nonexistent. if she tilts her head up just ever so slightly, she will see his lips and it is haunting her in more ways than one. if she looks up further she will find his eyes, his daunting eyes that seems to change every time she looks at them. there is something in him that makes him so magnetic, that no matter how much she tries to evade him at all costs, she still ends up finding him.

         they start to sway to the sound of their breaths, and the loud beating of their hearts. the people around them do not notice, in fact, she does just enough for the people to not notice. she gives herself just this once to feel all things she has repressed for so long. she gives herself just this night to set aside her hatred and spite for the world to feel _him._

         “have i told you that you look breathtaking?” his gaze is staring deep into her soulless eyes, and she feels warmth for the first time after years and years of cold.

         she only hums in response, taking in every single inch of him and every single word that flows out of his lips.

         “you are alluring.” he spins her around.

         “mesmerizing,” he adds as he pulls her closer.

         “ethereal.” their foreheads touch.

         this is the first time she allows herself to look into his eyes for as long as she could. she does not look away, she only looks at him and she does not even bother to look for him in her memories. tonight, there is only him.

         “i think,” he breathes out, “i love you.”

         it takes her longer than she would like to admit to process what he has said, and when it finally sinks into her head, she finds herself pulling him into a kiss.

         the kiss is like an explosion of memories left untouched by years and years of walking in the earth. suddenly, she sees his face in every crowd. he is in the french revolution, walking a few steps behind war when she sees war for the first time. there is a white glow that follows him and she looks at how people seem to fill with hope as he walks past.

         he is in the second world war, looking at the world fall apart with a look of pain in his eyes as the people around him fall into their doom. they fall apart due to the vicious cycle of the world, and he watches with eyes filled with regret.

         she sees him a few meters behind the people she meets after they die. she remembers the people asking them what happens next, and her not saying anything because the purpose of death is that nothing should come next. their energies will be given back to the world, and only their memories will live until they cease to exist in all essence.

         he is present every time she goes somewhere where there is a lot of decay, because he is the entire opposite of it. he is bloom and springtime. he is the fresh start after every failure. he is hope instilled after a grave tragedy.

         he is life.

         when she opens her eyes, she is crying.

         “how could you possibly love me?” she asks him, her arms are weak and it is the first time in a long time that she finds herself weak and fragile. “i am death. i can never be loved.”

         “you are wrong.” he brushes a piece of her blonde hair away from her face and kisses her forehead.

         “how?” she whispers with years and years of heartbreak surfacing in her words.

         “you make life worth it.”

         the world stops with his words, and she finds herself kissing him once more.

         “ _what do you remember?_ ” he asks her as they stand on top of the eiffel tower.

         “you,” she says as she takes in his warmth.

**Author's Note:**

> this came to me at four in the morning after scrolling through pinterest, and it's the most substantive thing i've written in weeks. 
> 
> inspired by this prompt from pinterest. (https://www.pinterest.com/pin/789889222120164126/).


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